


girl in amber

by ennaih (aquandrian)



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Discussion of Rape, F/M, Felching, Identity Porn, Rimming, Sex Slavery, Shameless Smut, Smut, a lot of sex in this one, accidental feelings, but not, but not really, i have no idea how to tag this, look just read the summary okay?, sort of, sort of dub-con at the start, wot?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-12
Updated: 2016-09-12
Packaged: 2018-08-14 16:00:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8020204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aquandrian/pseuds/ennaih
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Director of the Imperial Army had a secret clone project, the result of which was just one very special specimen. Lithe, lethal and blonde, this special Death Trooper was a terror on battlefield and especially tasked to certain duties for the Director’s personal pleasure.</p><p>Then Jyn Erso found out… the clone looked like her, but blonde. And a new mission was devised.</p><p> </p><p>  <a href="http://jynnics.tumblr.com/post/150308428831/jynnics-the-director-of-the-imperial-army-had-a">Inspired by this glorious aesthetic by jynnics.</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	girl in amber

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the song of the same name by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds.

The mission is her idea. It’s the most obvious solution, presents itself in her head as she stares at the surreal horror of this thing that looks exactly like her. Except for the trashy blonde hair. My god, it’s so trashy. But a useful camouflage device. Even if she’s found out within minutes, within hours, at the very least she might get close enough to kill him. At the most, she’ll get away with the plans and all the information they need to destroy that behemoth before it goes operational.

The tattoo is necessary. It’s not as simple as ink, the Rebellion techs explain. A combination of body modification, it’s a divot in the clone’s skin, a precise round punchmark and a row of tiny symbols on the rib just below her right breast. The Rebellion techs couldn’t decipher the symbols, and in the end decided they must be a particular code employed by the Director of the Imperial Army. “It’s a fucking barcode,” Leia breathes, aghast. “That pig.”

Jyn’s inclined to agree. It’s also goddamned painful. The med unit assures her they’ll fix it as soon as she wants, that a combination of bacta and cosmetic surgery will make it so she was never marked like this, a piece of goods in an inventory. She wonders how many others there were, how many defective clones he deemed unfit, and discarded. How many bodies that look like her piled upon each other, lifeless and staring, incinerated because a man’s desire wasn’t sated. 

This is what she thinks when she’s shown into the Director’s private rooms, that image of horror, the image of the blank face that is hers, that lifeless girl body sitting upright in the lab on base. The Death Troopers in their full armour are on either side of her. “Sir,” one says, voice distorted by the helmet.

The Director of the Imperial Army is much taller than she expected, the swoop of his cape absurd and majestic as he turns from the desk to face them. His eyes find her immediately, intense and unwavering, as if there’s no one else in the room but her. 

“Leave.”

The Death Troopers snap to attention and obey. She stands a little more casually, the program commands scrolling through her head as she stares straight ahead and he comes closer. His gloved hand is on the custom blaster, so very wary. Of course he suspects the very thing they’ve done. Of course he’s looking hard at her, looking for any sign, the slightest thing wrong. 

Then the muzzle of the blaster is at her temple and he’s right in front of her, tall enough that he looks down at her with steely blue eyes and cruel mouth in a coldly handsome face. “Where have you been?”

It’s not a kind question. His voice is as clipped and controlled as she expected. The muzzle presses into her temple, precise and round against her skin. “I asked you a question. Where have you been?”

Jyn pitches her voice just right, trying to mimic the girl who didn’t sound like her. “I don’t know. I got lost.”

That is exactly the truth. They had found the clone wandering a spice market, adorably confused and breaking limbs of any potential attacker.

Now the Director steps closer, all icy white fabric, perfectly arranged hair, and cool breath. His eyes are extraordinarily clear and so very malicious. “Who did you speak to?”

“I don’t know their names. I asked. I asked for you. Then the Death Troopers found me and brought me to you.”

He thinks about this for a few moments, then the blaster lowers. Jyn finds only then that she starts to breathe again. The blaster sheathed, his face has changed a little, something around the mouth even though his eyes remain clear and cool blue. He touches her cheek with one gloved hand, and then his thumb pushes her lips open, pushes into her mouth. Hatred roars through her, so violent, she hates the way he touches her, hates the utter lack of care in his eyes. 

The Director puts both his gloved hands on her face, leaving her very little breathing room, like he owns every atom of her personal space. He examines her features, turns her head to the side and back again. “You’re not hurt.”

“No. I repaired myself.” A half truth. The girl in the lab is fundamentally damaged, beyond her self-repair capabilities. 

“Good.” His eyes return to hers, keen and unwavering like they won’t miss the slightest slip. And she realises he’s unbuttoning her shirt. Precise unhurried movements like she is entirely his to undress and reveal. Jyn keeps her hands open at her side, keeps her breathing regular, her eyes locked with his, as the regulated air of the room touches her bare skin. She wears only what the clone wore, which is nothing below the uniform. 

He exposes both her breasts, shocking her on some deep awful level. And only then does he look down. One leather gloved hand lifts the small swell of her right breast and he bends to inspect the code. Jyn stares straight ahead, aware that all her skin wants to crawl away from his touch, aware that her nipple is hardening in his warm hand, aware that his touch is not tender. It’s indifferent and proprietal. She realises she’s going to discover new capacities for hatred, for pure homicidal rage.

Apparently satisfied, the Director straightens up. If he had been one second earlier, Jyn is sure all her violence would have shown on her face. But she blinks and slips right back into clone mode as their eyes meet once more, scrolling the program commands in her mind.

“Good,” he murmurs, his hand toying now with her nipple. And then the corner of his mouth curls up, a perverse prettiness about him as he asks, “Did you miss me?”

She knows the right response to this. “Sir?”

The Director gives a little huff of amusement, his gaze dropping with his hands to where he undoes the belt of her trousers. “I know. You wandered away and went on a little adventure.” Air on the shaved bare curve of her sex. And his eyes are cruelly beautiful blue as he slides his gloved fingers between her thighs, slick leather against her vulva. He finds the natural wetness of her cunt. Two fingers right in, and Jyn clamps down on every instinct to lash out, wanting so much to hurt him. He laughs softly at her, like a boy teasing some small animal. “And now you’re back with your master.”

“Sir,” she says on a breath. The alertness hasn’t left his eyes, not when he lets go of her and steps back, giving her some measure of freedom. 

“Ease.”

Jyn’s been waiting for this. Her spine immediately goes fluid, all her posture changes, her head goes down and forward. She tugs the clasp away from her hair, the fine blonde mess swinging forward around her face. “Master,” she says in that particular breathy voice dripping coquettish sex, her eyes big and sly up at him. All exactly as the clone shocked them in the lab.

The Director of the Imperial Army smiles, very cynical and unsurprised. “Good,” he says, undoing the silver clasp of his belt. She goes to her knees, knowing what’s expected and knowing there is no way she will ever do it. Ten different strategies sleet through her mind even as she undoes the dark trousers and reaches into the regulation black underwear to take hold of the Director’s cock. Revulsion crawls down her spine. His gloved hand comes to rest on her head. She knows what’s expected. And instead she tugs his clothes down and buries her face against the smooth taut line of his thigh. “Master,” she looks up and asks, “won’t you make me yours again?”

He fucks her swift and hard on her knees. No preparation, not even a kiss. She’s fucked without mercy, without care, a possession reclaimed. And in a way, she prefers this to any other way. She doesn’t have to see his face, he doesn’t get to see the shock and sensation and the many betrayals on hers. His gloved hands are hard on her hips, the jacketed arm that snakes across her abdomen, pulling her bottom up against him. He holds her in place for his brutal pounding cock, and her body responds, also something she prefers because it makes it that much easier, because she’s dripping with her own come all down her thighs by the time he’s done with her. It’s that much easier to fake it, crying out and coming and promising herself she’s going to carve him up when all this is done. She’s going to kill him so slow it’ll be like a different best kind of sex. That’s how she collapses in a happy heap on the floor when he pulls out and lets her go.

He pats her upturned bottom. “Welcome back, Rose.”

____________

Rose is an anagram for Erso. It’s absurd and old-fashioned which makes the way he uses her all the more perverse. She hardly ever leaves his side. He has her sleep in his bed, invariably naked. She wakes up more than once to find him balls deep in her, his breath rough and hot in her hair, his hips driving against hers. With all the ways she avoids sucking his cock, he has no qualms about going down on her, and she finds herself screaming at the walls, fingers clenched in his hair, hating him with every pulse of her cunt, with every shudder and splurt of come across his face. 

The sex is unrelenting. He’s brutal with her, hauling her face up against transparisteel, her naked breasts pressed against the cold, as he fucks her from behind with the wild beautiful colours of the cosmos spiralling before them. It’s depraved, the things he does to her. How he spreads her bottom and licks her open and then invades her there with his cock, making her feel violated in ways she’s never felt before. And then he licks his come out of her. She cries from her orgasms that time. 

When she’s not standing behind him at briefings and meetings, he’s fucking her in every possible way in the privacy of his living quarters. And sometimes not even there. One time he clears the boardroom after the conference and orders her out of the Death Trooper armour. She finds herself face down, bent over the hard wooden arm of a chair, gasping into the velvet seat as he hammers into her shuddering responsive body. He could have had her on the boardroom table but no, it had to be like this, utterly undignified and used.

It’s during her supposed self-repair time, instead checking in with Leia on an encrypted holochannel that she realises.

“That’s rape!” Leia exclaims, horrified. “That’s disgusting, no, I’m getting you out of there!”

“No,” Jyn snaps, not needing a second to consider it. “What did you think was going to happen, Leia? We knew. This was my choice, this is my mission. I say when it ends, and it’s not ending until I get what I want.”

Either his death or the plans.

“But it’s not right,” Leia protests, visibly upset. “You shouldn’t have to do that …”

It’s true. Jyn pauses. She doesn’t.

“Do,” Leia hesitates, trying to word it correctly. “Do you … like it?”

Jyn straightens up from the glow of the channel. “I have something for you. More information.”

Because there is so much information after all. He talks to her all the time. After the sex, when they’re in bed together, when they’re eating, even when he’s at his desk flipping through reports. He tells her about the Emperor, about every high ranking official that crosses their path. He tells her so much because he knows it will never go anywhere. Her conversations with him are supposed to wipe every night. 

There is an unexpected benefit to that little non-trick. She gets to forget things about him, and so she conveniently forgets where his boots go, how he takes his caf, the occasional message or transmission. It’s glorious and petty, how she gets to widen her eyes in innocent confusion when he grinds his teeth at her and says with effort, “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it, Rose. I’ll find them myself.”

She conveys all that information to Leia. What she doesn’t tell are the moments that confuse her deeply. When during some tedious meeting or conference, some idiot general says something stupid and he -- she only ever calls him that in her head -- glances across at her, his eyes alive with glee, and in her helmet, she bites her lip. When they finish fucking and he kisses her shoulderblade, sliding his hand between her thighs to cup her pleasantly sore cunt. When she’s riding him and doing the baby talk from the program and he says “Stop it, stop that. Don’t do that anymore,” and so she leans down and says, “How do you want me to talk to you, Master? Do you want me to fuck you up?” And he shudders and clutches at her hips, urging her harder on his cock. When later he lets her bite him all over, her teeth marking him, seizing his flesh like she could eat him in parts and then whole, and his eyes are dazed and lovely and blue up at her like she’s all he sees. When they’re lying together, she nestled up against him, his arm around her and his hand stroking her back, endless caresses of his fingertips against her bare skin, as he reads Old Republic literature to her. She drifts off to sleep so many times to the sound of his voice easy and expressive, so often amused.

There was a story she read once, long before they met, a story set in an age lost to memory, of a young woman married to a rich man she didn’t love, how that young wife came to crave the touch of her husband in the night, how she delayed leaving him night after night. There’s a line Jyn remembers that repeats in her head. “The next night, the next night …”

And when Leia asks her if she likes it, she knows that’s one more thing she can’t say.

She likes the way he uses her.

_____________

 

It’s little over a month of constant sex and unsettling intimacy. She bleaches her hair blonde so the roots never show, takes the pills that delay her menstruation because the clone had no cycle. And eventually he roars at her about the flaw they found in the plans. She listens, sick inside because she shouldn’t be feeling this disappointment. She shouldn’t be thinking anything but getting back to the Rebellion, about finally getting the chance to hurt him beautifully.

When she leaves his quarters for her self-repair time, for what he doesn’t know is the last time, Jyn stops at the door and looks back. The plans are in her pack, the shuttle is ready in the bay to be stolen and flown to the extraction point. He’s at his desk, all gleaming silver and immaculate, his mouth pursed as he skims a datapad. When she doesn’t move, he flicks a glance up at her. “Off you go,” he says mildly. 

And that’s when she realises. He has the most beautiful eyes she’s ever seen.

He will never see Rose again.

_____________

 

When the Death Star is destroyed and the Rebellion celebrates the collapse of the Empire, Jyn Erso dyes her hair back to brown. Eventually the blonde grows out entirely. The code remains though, something only she knows and has to explain to no one, not even the occasional medic. She keeps the clone in her quarters, and occasionally late at night they talk. The clone asks where he is and Jyn doesn’t know what to say. It’s like they’re both trapped in an impossible memory, a time that never should have happened. 

Almost five years later, as the galaxy stirs with unease again, Jyn Erso lands her private craft outside a small town on an Outer Rim planet. There’s information to be gotten from an old Jedi historian. She hikes towards the mess of houses, hears the joyful shrieks of children as she enters the small network of lanes and dirt paths. There’s a schoolhouse close to the centre, the children pouring out of the yard, human and all different species from across the galaxy, all screamingly happy to be done with school for the day. She grins at them, automatically following the sight of the throng back to the porch. 

Her world tips on its axis.

The schoolmaster nods amiably at the last straggling child, and goes back into the hidden shadow of the classroom. 

Disquieted, Jyn continues on her way. She finds the house of the Jedi historian, spends the evening discussing the absurd history of the Skywalker family, and shares a meal with her. When she relays a less scathing version over the channel, Leia asks if she’s all right, if something’s happened.

“No, I’m fine,” Jyn says. “It was just a long trip and it’s very hot here. I’ll see you all soon.”

As the suns go down and the hush of a desert night weighs on the town, she slips out of the historian’s cottage and makes her way to the darkened shape of the schoolhouse. A light burns in one window like some Old Republic religious icon. Jyn tries the front door and walks in.

He’s almost exactly as she left him, sitting behind a desk, reading. But this time the room is made of wood, the lamp throws its golden light on him, and what he reads is an actual book. This time he is five years older, his hair cut so short and spiking forward in silver that it makes his face look all the more tapered and handsome. And when he glances up and sees her, it’s through fine silver-rimmed glasses, his blue eyes bright and alert.

“There you are.”

Jyn takes a few steps into the schoolroom, the door thudding shut behind her. She’s shocked to her core. “You knew.” 

He pushes his chair back from the desk but she’s already in his lap, ignoring the book falling to the floor. Her hands in his short hair, she’s gripping his face, amazed that she can touch him, amazed at the way his eyes are laughing at her. “When did you know?” she practically bellows.

He laughs openly at her now, tugging her hands down and settling his glasses properly. That’s all she needs. She kisses him on the mouth, open and warm. It’s the first time they kiss, and he responds with all the same fury she remembers. A cry in her throat, she tugs at their clothing in a shared desperation, and then she’s rocking forward on his cock deep within her, kissing his mouth again and again now she’s got the taste of him. He’s arching up into her, arching into her mouth, his hands hard and possessive on her. They come in a mess of breath and hair, gasping into each other. 

“When?” she insists, unable to stop touching his face, unashamed about it. His shirt is open and she touches his nipples too, turning her face so he can kiss her neck like he wants. His arms are tight around her but she doesn’t mind that so much. Now he laughs gently against her skin. “The first time.”

“What?” Jyn pulls back so she can see his face. “What, really?”

He grins at her, his face all crinkling and charming. “The clone was never that wet. Or that hot. Also,” he adds thoughtfully, “the cock sucking.”

She makes a face. “Did she suck your cock all the time?”

“All the time.”

She rolls her eyes and kisses him instead. Between them, he gently spreads the halves of her shirt and they both look down as he cups her breast and lifts. In silence, he looks at the code and then looks up at her. His glasses are slightly smeared and crooked now. She straightens them on his nose, saying softly, “Are you going to tell me what it means?”

He runs his fingertip across the symbols, and says simply: “Mine. Forever.”

Jyn breathes out. “You realise, don’t you, that you never actually knew me.”

He arches a brow at her, insufferable even now. She’s not fazed, she’s thought about this a lot over the past few years.

“What you knew, what you built and you fucked, was a program. Not me.”

He watches her for a long moment, so much complex thought going through his eyes, changing his expression subtly. Eventually he smiles, inexpressibly beautiful. “Oh, I know. That became very clear very fast when you arrived.”

Jyn blushes a little, absurdly pleased as she scrapes her nail across his pink nipple. And then: “Did you fuck her like you fucked me?”

His mouth purses as he touches her dark hair loose on her shoulders. “Maybe not quite as hard,” he admits. “Or as often.”

She laughs and leans down to bite his nipple. “You’re such a bad man.” 

“Mm hmm.” He cuddles her closer. “I bet you wanted to kill the bad man.”

“Oh yes,” she admits without hesitation. “I was going to kill you slowly and so very painfully. For everything you did to her and to me.”

“And now?” he asks, a careful blankness in his face and voice.

“Now.” Jyn wriggles down off the chair, her eyes clever and wicked up at him. “Now I get to do whatever I want to you.”

She uses her teeth on his cock. And after he comes very hard in her mouth, she climbs back up, kisses him and says, “Now you call me Master.”

**Author's Note:**

> So jynnics and I were chatting a couple of nights ago and I said how I'm still trying to work out how to write a story around blonde Felicity Jones, and jynnics said "Oh my god, I have a terrible idea, you're going to think I'm crazy" and I'm like "Omg tell me" and she did and I was like "Omg BUFFYBOT!" And she was like "How do I explain this to the fandom?" and I said "Like this" and wrote a little summary. And then she made [that incredibly detailed inspiring aesthetic](http://jynnics.tumblr.com/post/150308428831/jynnics-the-director-of-the-imperial-army-had-a) and I got totally distracted from the fic I'm supposed to be writing, so wrote this instead.
> 
> Yes, it's very much influenced by a certain storyline in Buffy The Vampire Slayer. And yes, I have a thing about happy endings post-everything with re-invented incognito Krennic and them finding each other again. The sex against the window is totally because of and for ohhpossum/directorerso. And the story about the wife is totally [onstraysod's Gothic AU](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7550227/chapters/17170903) cos I loves it.
> 
> Don't worry, Leia made sure the clone was taken care of for the rest of her days.


End file.
